Wild Child: Zigesfeld's Tale
by Bill Hiers
Summary: The most powerful villain in France, Augustus Steranko, and his assistant Ilsa Grunt are about to get a new henchman. They just don't know it. An If Looks Could Kill 1991 prequel fanfiction.
1. Chapter 1

Lucien hated the cold. Even though it had not yet begun to snow, he and his partner Faesch were bundled up as though they were in the midst of a blizzard. Lucien himself was standing in their campsite, warming his gloved hands over the fire while waiting for a pot of stew to cook. And also waiting for Faesch to return. His fellow hunter had gone off in search of some deer tracks for them to follow; Lucien had elected to remain in the campsite.

Hearing a rustling, he turned and saw Faesch emerging from the bushes, rifle in hand. He was grinning. "Found some tracks," he said in French. "Real fresh. Can't be more than a half a mile away. Grab your gun and follow me. This trip might not be a total waste after all."

Lucien nodded. He never said it, but he was a bit nervous. Technically they weren't supposed to be out here. Although it was hunting season in Aurnberg, the area of the province that the two were camped in was uncomfortably close to land owned by Augustus Steranko. Steranko maintained a private army, it was said, and, as Chancellor of the European economic community he wielded a considerable amount of political power. That much Lucien knew. He knew that if they got caught by Steranko's soldiers hunting on the Chancellor's property, they'd be in jail so fast their heads would spin.

Still, he figured as long as they steered clear of the cliffs, they'd be safe. He grabbed his own rifle and followed Faesch, the two trudging through the forest. Faesch walked slightly ahead of his comrade, stooped down low, following deer tracks that Lucien, for his part, found difficult to see. Faesch was the tracker. He just pointed his gun at things and shot.

About ten paces in, Faesch stopped. Behind him, Lucien also paused.

"What is it?" asked Lucien.

"Footprints," said Faesch, stooping lower.

Lucien walked around to stand beside his friend. Now these were footprints he could see. Human footprints. Someone wearing shoes. "A soldier?" he asked worriedly.

"Possibly," said Faesch, standing and continuing on. "No, more likely another hunter. These aren't combat boots. Come on."

They walked on a little further in silence, Lucien growing warier and warier by the moment. If there was another hunter stalking a deer so close by why hadn't they heard a shot? He got his answer soon enough. As the two came to a steep incline, leading downwards, Faesch's foot struck a rock that was hidden by the underbrush. With a cry he tumbled forwards and rolled down the slope, his rifle flying from his hand. Lucien didn't see where it landed. He was too busy watching Faesch rolling head over heels down the hillside in an almost comical fashion. Finally the other hunter hit bottom, and sprawled face-down on the ground.

"Faesch!" Lucien cried, and, mindful of the rocks, struggled down the slope as quickly as he could, to kneel beside his fallen friend. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Faesch replied. "I--" But be stopped midsentance, looking over at something. Lucien followed his gaze.

Five feet from where the two men were was a deer carcass. Fresh. Obviously the one they'd been following. And hunched over the carcass, his back to them, was a man wearing loose-fitting slacks and a dirty white shirt with a colorful striped scarf. He had nearly shoulder-length, matted black hair. Was this the other hunter whose footprints they'd found earlier? He was...doing something to the deer.

"Holy hell," Lucien whispered.

The man tensed suddenly, as though sensing their presense for the first time. He turned, revealing himself to be not a man but a boy of perhaps sixteen or seventeen. Lucien felt his stomach lurch. The boy was holding in his bare hands raw deer flesh, and there was some blood smeared around his mouth; the carcass splayed before him was completely eviscerated. The youth was eating the dead deer raw. He glared at the two interlopers with wild, hateful eyes, and, then, to both men's surprise, he growled at them.

"I think we should go," Faesch suggested, reaching up and grabbing Lucien's shoulder for support. Slowly, so as not to antagonize the obviously crazy boy, Lucien began helping his friend to his feet.

The boy growled again, and dropped the meat, jumping up suddenly. With a speed and ferocity that caught the two hunters off guard he charged at them completely unprovoked. Lucien cried out and released Faesch, who fell to the side; Lucien brought his rifle up instinctively, but the boy grabbed the barrel before he could fire and wrenched it from his hands. Lucien could only stand there, gawking, as the boy, still clutching the gun by the barrel, held it like a baseball bat, and swung it.

Blood sprayed through the air as the butt of the rifle slammed into Lucien's head, sending him reeling. He managed to keep his balance, although the blow spun him around so he stood with his back to his attacker in a daze.

As Faesch watched, wide-eyed, the youth swung the rifle again and this time hit Lucien in the back of his skull. There was a loud crack, like china breaking, and Lucien fell forwards and didn't get up. The fact the hunter was dead did not seem to satisfy the boy who continued bashing the corpse with the rifle.

Faesch meanwhile looked around in vain for his own weapon, then made an attempt tp escape by crawling back up the slope. He made it halfway up when the boy finally remembered there were two of them, and grabbed Faesch's ankle. Faesch screamed shrilly as he was dragged back down, and died under a fury of blows from his attacker's fists, as the enraged boy hit him...

Zigesfeld stood, panting, over the lifeless body of the second man, lying alongside that of the first. Both of them had been beaten almost unrecognizable. Sometimes the boy was amazed at his own strength, especially considering he wasn't very big. As he caught his breath, he looked down at his hands, which were drenched in the second man's blood. With a cry he ran to a nearby stream and dipped his hands into the frigid water, wincing at the cold. As he washed himself, Zigesfeld thought again of how he had gotten here, living in the wilderness like a wild animal.

Born to middle-class Polish parents, the young Zigesfeld had always acted differently from the other children. Slower in his studies, quiet, and a bit of a loner, he didn't like being bothered. But the other boys wouldn't leave him alone. Even when he lashed out violently to try and make them go away, they never seemed to get the hint. So it came to pass that he beat a boy to death in a fistfight in the schoolyard. Before he knew it, he was taken away from his parents and sent first to a juvenile detention center. After he killed another inmate there, however, a doctor declared him mentally incompetent, and he was shipped off to the Aurnberg Home For Disturbed Children. Which is where he'd remained for the last seven years, drugged, studied, poked and prodded.

Finally, unable to take it anymore, he had attacked his psychiatrist Dr. Baker in a therapy session, strangling him with his own necktie, and escaped. The one thing he'd had the presence of mind to grab on his way out of Baker's office window had been the doctor's hat and scarf. The hat flew off his head during his frenzied flight down the road from the hospital, but he managed to keep the scarf.

Now, he'd spent the past several weeks wandering further and further away from the hospital, sticking to the woods, surviving by catching and killing the local wildlife. Now, though, Zigesfeld was finding it more and more difficult to survive. When he'd escaped from the asylum, it had been fall still. Not too cold. But now with the temperature dropping and winter on its way, Zigesfeld was beginning to wish he'd had the presence of mind to steal Dr. Baker's overocat, too. The scarf just wasn't cutting it. Remembering the two men, Zigesfeld glanced over. They both still lay where they fell. Shaking his hands dry, he rose and walked over to them. They were both dressed in winter coats and mittens.

Immediately, Zigesfeld set to work stripping the second man of his clothing. The first man's clothes were too bloody from being bludgeoned with the rifle, which now lay twisted and broken beyond use on the ground nearby. He didn't feel any remorse about having killed them. Even though they hadn't attacked him, he was certain they would have if given the chance. After all the first one had brought his gun to bear on him! Besides, had they escapes, they would've almost certainly reported his whereabouts to the asylum.

From the second man Zigesfeld took his coat and his mittens. He smiled, instantly feeling a little better. After standing a moment to enjoy the warmth, Zigesfeld decided it was time to get moving again. Deciding he may as well have a look in the direction the men must have come from, the boy trudged up the steep hillside. Smelling something cooking, he follow the scent until he came to a small campsite. There was a pot of stew cooking over a dying fire, a tent, some folding chairs, and, nearby, a parked Ford Courier pickup truck.

Figuring he was in no hurry, the youth helped himself to some of the stew, and ate it as leisurely as he dared, forgoing either of the available chairs and crouching beside the fire, occasionally glancing warily around lest more men appear. When he was finished eating, he stood and looked at the Ford. He had a basic idea of how to drive, even though he lacked a license. He walked over and tried the driver's side door. Locked. He was about to return to where the two dead man lay when he thought to check the pocket of the coat, and managed a smile as he found the keys. Unlocking the door, he got inside.

He jumped a little as he started the motor up, and, trying to figure out what to do, randomly pushed buttons on the dashboard before him. This turned the headlights on, off, and then on again, and got the windshield wipers going, but didn't get Zigesfeld any closer to getting on the move. Growling in frustration, he grabbed the gearshift and jerked it down. Stepping on the gas, he yelped as the truck suddenly shot backwards, driving over the smouldering campfire and crushing one of the chairs. It slammed into the trunk of a tree, denting the tailgate. Zigesfeld frowned, and pushed the gearshift up this time. Now when he stepped on the gas, the truck surged forwards.

He held on for dear life as the pickup crashed through the foliage and bounced over rough terrain, windshield wipers swishing furiously, before finally shooting out onto a paved road, where he nearly collided with another car, a stretched Mercedes-Benz limousine. The limo driver slammed on the brakes, honking his horn; Zigesfeld growled and gave him the finger, then spun the truck around, both passenger's side hubcaps popping off, and then he shot off down the road, tires squealing.

He wasn't quite sure where he was headed, but at least he was getting somewhere, and that was all that mattered at the moment.

To Be Continued... 


	2. Chapter 2

Zigesfeld drove as far as the pickup's gas tank took him. Which wasn't very far. There were no petrol stations in the vicinity it seemed, just miles of forest on either side of the road. All for the best, since he dared not visit one anyway. Idly he chided himself for not checking the hunters' corpses for money, but then he told himself he would properly rob the next person he stumbled across. But that plan went right out the window when the next person he saw was an armed guard.

The woods on the left side of the road abruptly terminated into a wrought-iron fence with a massive gate, emblazoned with an odd-looking scorpion emblem. Beyond the gate was a private road, leading to of all things a castle in the distance, perched on a high cliff overlooking what Zigesfeld figured to be a lake or something. The guard was standing just outside the gate, a machine gun slung over his shoulder. He gave Zigesfeld a suspicious look as the youth slowed the Ford while passing, getting the lay of things, then be abruptly sped up and drove further down the road.

The truck began to sputter. Scowling, Zigesfeld looked at the petrol meter. Empty. Spinning the wheel he roughly drove the vehicle off the road - and right into a ditch. After shaking off the dizziness from the sudden jolt, he opened the door and got out. Back the way he came, he could still make out the guard as a small figure in the distance. And if he could see the guard, the guard could see him. Leaving the door hanging open, Zigesfeld walked as casually as possible around the pickup, then, once it was between him and the guard's line of sight, he bolted into the woods.

Meanwhile, the guard had indeed noticed the pickup truck's suddenly driving into a ditch. Suspicious, he got out his walkie-talkie and decided he ought to report this to Ilsa.

Being small had made life difficult for Ilsa Grunt. At a mere four feet tall, the tiny but commanding woman had learned early in life that when people are bigger, one had to be a smidge more ruthless when going about things. She had entered politics as a young woman, and clawed her way to the top of that pile of weasels and rats, but, despite her obvious intelligence and common sense, her height (not to mention her gender) made it difficult for her male colleagues to take her in any way seriously.

All of them, that is, except for Augustus. He had been a young government minister at the time, and when he was appointed to be Aurnberg's chancellor of finance, Ilsa's aggressive nature and gusto suitably impressed him, and he invited her to come and work for him. Considering the influence and power wielded by the Steranko family name, Ilsa could not refuse. Besides, Augustus was charming and handsome. The two of them often bickered as of late, but otherwise were like two peas in a pod. Ilsa even had something of a crush on her employer; she hated herself for having such childish feelings towards a man who obviously wanted nothing more than a business relationship, but the feelings were there nonetheless.

At the moment, Ilsa was directing the castle servants to prepare dinner and make ready for Augustus' return. The limo had already left to pick him up from the airport. As the underlings scurried off to perform their duties, a guard holding a walkie-talkie walked up to her. She regarded him coolly. She couldn't stand Augustus' henchmen. Jackbooted thugs, the lot of them. Still, they were all under orders from Steranko himself to obey her when he wasn't around.

"Miss Grunt," the guard said, holding up the walkie-talkie, "it's Emerson at the front gate."

"What does that layabout want?" Ilsa said, turning and already walking away.

"He says we might have an intruder," the guard replied. This made Ilsa stop and turn, giving the man her full attention. He continued, "A truck drove into a ditch on the road, and the driver got out, and Emerson thinks he ran into the woods on this side."

Ilsa frowned. Just what they needed. Trouble. She had a pretty good idea of the intruder's identity, too. Since she had come to work for Augustus, Ilsa had found that her boss was involved less than legal matters much of the time. Although the economic community as a whole was none the wiser about Augustus Steranko's true intentions, certain people in British Intelligence were suspicious, and liked to send agents to spy on the castle. One particularly bothersome man bore the ridiculous codename "Blade," and he grated on Ilsa so much that she had since convinced herself she would be the end of that foolish man someday.

To the guard, she said, "Put everyone on alert. But for God's sake no shooting this time! I don't want Augustus to return and find the police crawling all over the castle! Not like last time!"

"Last time" was when a predecessor of Blade's had managed to infiltrate the castle, which due to its placement on the cliffs, was relatively easy to access if one could get past the security. The guards at gotten too trigger-happy and not only shot the agent but also accidentally exploded an ammo dump, which very nearly burned the entire castle down. The fire department had to be called, and Ilsa and Augustus had had to concoct a cover story framing the dead agent as an assassin from an "unknown rival country."

The guard nodded and ran off. Ilsa sighed. She shook her head and ascended the main staircase. This wasn't going to end well, she thought.

Meanwhile, Zigesfeld had indeed managed to sneak past the guards. Most of them were at the front gate or examining the abandoned pickup truck. There were only a few around the castle itself, allowing Zigesfeld to sneak around the side of the building at his leisure. He had no idea who lived here or why they felt they needed armed soldiers, but he didn't much care. He was only interested in finding either a new mode of transportation, some money, or perhaps some food. With any luck, all three.

As he rounded the back of the castle he found himself in a large cobblestone courtyard with battlements overlooking the lake. No vehicles in sight, except for a helicopter sitting on a landing pad off to the left. Zigesfeld had no idea how to fly, so that was out of the question. Hearing a door open, he ducked into an alcove. A man wearing a white apron and a chef's hat emerged carrying a garbage bag. Zigesfeld watched as he carried it to a dumpster, and, deciding this was his chance, he charged at the man and tackled him from behind. The man managed a small cry before Zigesfeld banged his head against the dumpster, knocking him out.

The chef collapsed to the cobblestones, and then Zigesfeld walked into the castle through the open door. He found himself in a large kitchen. There was no one else in sight. Dinner was cooking on a stove, but he ignored that. No time to sit and prepare a proper meal. Instead, the youth opened the pantry and began to ransack it, tearing open boxes and devouring their contents.

At this moment, another man came in. He was wearing a black suit and tie. A butler. He stopped dead upon seeing this stranger tearing into the snack foods like a wild animal. Zigesfeld noticed him out of the corner of his eye, snarled, and, dropping the box of pretzels he'd been eating, lunged at him. The butler yelled and backpedaled, bumping into the stove. Zigesfeld was on top of him in an instant. He knocked aside a pot with green beans in it, and smashed the butler's head against the burner with a loud hiss.

The butler shrieked and struggled but Zigesfeld held him there until he finally quit moving. He then jumped off him, leaving the butler to fall to the floor, scorched flesh peeling off the burner and leaving a ghastly wound on the side of the man's face.

In response to the yelling, ANOTHER man appeared. He was another, younger domestic, about Zigesfeld's age.

"Guards!" he yelled.

Zigesfeld lashed out with his foot and kicked the boy in the groin. He doubled over, clutching his injured genitals. Behind him three uniformed guards appeared. A vicious punch sent the boy staggering back into them and all four men tumbled to the floor in a heap.

Zigesfeld turned to go back out the way he'd come in, but through the open kitchen door he saw more guards helping the chef outside. He growled, and turned, ran and leapt over the dazed guards and found himself running down a long wood-panelled hallway of some sort, trying every door. Most were locked. Those that were open led to rooms that provided no escape.

By now the guards he'd knocked down had gotten up. Plus, the chef had been discovered. The alarms were sounded. Zigesfeld was beginning to become more than a little afraid now. He ran into a vast ballroom with an ornate chandalier. A flag hung on the far wall bearing the very scorpion symbol that was on the front gate. Two guards came in through a doorway at the opposite end.

One of them raised his machine gun, but the other guard grabbed the barrel and forced it down. "No!" he cried. "You heard what Grunt said! No shooting!"

Zigesfeld couldn't understand why they'd been ordered not to shoot, but he used this to his advantage. He ran at the guards, yelling. They stood there, looking thoroughly confused by his seeming lack of self-preservation instincts. He crashed into them, just as the guards from the kitchen ran in behind him. The first two guards were sent staggering. One crashed into the wall. Zigesfeld viciously punched the other, sending him reeling where he fell to his hands and knees.

The youth was then jumped from behind by another guard who attempted to take him down. No such luck. Zigesfeld spun himself around, using his attacker's legs to smack the other two guards upside their heads, knocking them down.

He fell to his knees and flipped the man over himself. He landed hard on the floor with an "Oof!" Hearing the others coming behind him, Zigesfeld got up and ran, intentionally trodding upon the fallen guard, probably breaking his nose or possibly cracking a rib. The other guards recovered, and gave chase.

The castle was in an uproar. Ilsa had been in her upstairs office when the alarms started going off. She hadn't heart any gunfire so at least the guards were obeying her orders not to shoot. She was just emerging from her office and approaching the stairs when the fight spilled out of the ballroom and into the main hall. Servants scattered. The intruder was jumped from behind by a pursuing guard, but flung off. He then turned and decked another guard, knocking him back into another. Still another guard attacked and earned a knee to the stomach for his troubles.

What was surprising about all of this was that the intruder was just a boy. A youth of no more than seventeen or eighteen by the looks of him. And he was actually holding his own against the guards. No, more than that. He was giving them a sound thrashing. Soon every single guard who had chased him from the ballroom was lying on the floor, dazed, unconscious or worse.

Ilsa involuntarily took a step back as the boy then turned and looked at her. She could tell immediately that he was totally out of his mind. His eyes were wide with a wilf, animalistic fury. Growling, he grabbed the banister and ascended the steps towards her. Ilsa composed herself and narrowed her eyes at him, making him pause. Then she grabbed hold of the gold necklace she was wearing and ripped it off. It infurled into a six-foot metallic bullwhip. Her secret weapon, so to speak, designed by Steranko's metallurgists.

At this, the boy gave a yelp and backed away. Ilsa cracked the whip and he shrieked suddenly, moving away further. So focused was he on her that when fresh guards poured into the room, he was easily tackled to the floor.

Ilsa sighed, and coiled the whip up, walking down the stairs and coming over to where the guards were holding the youth down. One of them raised his machine gun to hit him with its butt, but Ilsa stopped him.

"No," she said. "Don't kill him. Take him and put him in the dungeon for now. We'll decided what to do with him when Augustus returns."

The guards clearly disliked this. It was obvious they wished to kill the boy, but their fear of what Steranko would do to them if they disobeyed his right-hand woman superceded their desire for revenge for the beating they'd taken. Working together, they hoisted the feral boy up and carried him kicking and screaming from the hall.

Ilsa watched them go, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the boy. He was clearly a lunatic, and dangerous, but she still found herself feeling a bit sorry for him. She was unsure why. In the meantime, she rationalized her desire for the boy to live as being impressed with how well he'd handled himself against so many guards at once. If he could be tamed, he might prove useful in the long run, she mused.

Her train of thought was interrupted when she noticed the other servants still standing there, looking scared. A couple of maids and an older male domestic.

"What are you standing around for?" she snapped. "Get back to work!"

To Be Continued... 


	3. Chapter 3

It took six men to carry Zigesfeld down to the dungeon. One to hold each leg, one to hold each arm, and two holding him under his back, and still they had difficulty with him. Three more guards trailed along with the group, just in case, but the six managed to keep hold of the crazed teenager regardless of his struggles; they knew how angry Ilsa, not to mention Steranko, would be if he got loose again.

Zigesfeld, for his part, was completely freaking out. More than anything he hated being restrained, and as he saw where the guards were taking him he struggled harder, but they only tightened their grips. One of the three escorting guards went and opened one of the cell doors. As one, the others shove Zigesfeld in, and he found himself sprawled face-down in a narrow stone room lit by torchlight. He quickly jumped to his feet, intending to turn and run at the guards, but even as he spun the cell door was slammed in his face.

He snarled, grabbing the bars of the window and shaking them violently, giving the door a good rattle and making the nine guards all jump back nervously. But the door held. No matter how hard Zigesfeld tried, he couldn't tear the door off its hinges. As he finally gave up with a grunt of annoyance, the guards breathed a sigh of relief.

"You two stay here and watch that door," said the senior of the nine.

The chosen two nodded. Motioning with his machine gun for his comrades to follow, he and the other five trudged wearily up the steps leading from the dungeon. The remaining guards shifted uneasily as they turned and looked at Zigesfeld through the bars. He glared back at them, but ultimately simply turned and went and huddled in the corner, afraid.

As Ilsa had predicted, upon returning, Steranko was furious. He'd been gone for all of two days for an economic summit and already his entire household had degenerated into absolute chaos. He'd know something was wrong when he was first driving up to the front gate in his Mercedes limousine; he saw, and commented on, a Ford pickup truck being towed out of the ditch under the direction of some of his guards, and his chauffeur idly mentioned remembering the truck from before; it'd nearly run him off the road, he said.

When they pulled up to the castle, there was an ambulance parked there. Steranko let himself out and went inside, passing a couple of paramedics carrying out the senior butler on a stretcher, half his face swathed in bandages. In the main hall, a few more medics plus a doctor were inspecting some guards and other domestics in various states of minor injury. The chef in particular was mentioned as having suffered a concussion.

For the most part he ignored them and immediately sought out Ilsa. He found her in the study. She had her back to the door. Walking in, Steranko hissed under his breath, "Would you mind telling me what in the world has happened while I was gone?"

Turning to face him, Ilsa said, "We had an intruder." Even though she was small, and had to look up to most other people, with Augustus she had to crane her head a little higher. The man was abnormally tall and very gangly.

"An intruder?" Steranko said, aghast. "Who? Someone from British Intelligence?"

"It doesn't look like it," Ilsa responded, sounding a little tired. "We don't know who he is or where he came from. But according to the guards, he broke in and raided the kitchen."

Steranko gave a derisive snort. "I go away for a trade summit, and come back to find my entire household in chaos, all because of some vagrant?"

He spun and walked over to his desk. Ilsa remained where she was, crossing her arms. Her Augustus could be so dismissive about things sometimes.

"I'm afraid it's a little more than that, Augustus," she said. "He's no mere vagrant."

Steranko seemed to hardly be paying attention. He was playing with the gold scorpion statue he kept on his desk. "Oh?" he said, sounding uninterested.

"Mmhmm," Ilsa replied, walking over slowly, waiting for the right moment to drop the proverbial bombshell. "Most vagrants don't singlehandedly take on an entire private army and fight them off with their bare hands."

At this, as Ilsa had thought, Steranko paused. He straightened and turned, looking down at her. "What?" he cried, disbelief written all over his face.

Three minutes later, Ilsa and Steranko were descending the stone steps into the castle's dungeon. Although most of the ancient building had been modernized, Steranko had never bothered to have the underbelly of the place fixed up much. It was still lit entirely by torchlight. Not that it mattered. All that was down here were the dungeons and the old wine distillery that had fallen into horrendous disrepair.

"I still don't understand how one man can take on half of my guards without a weapon and live!" Steranko was muttering as he followed Ilsa's lead.

The two reached the bottom, and were greeted by the two armed guards left to watch the cell. The two pairs stood face to face.

"How is he?" Ilsa asked.

"He's been quiet," said the first guard. "Hasn't moved or made a sound."

"Yeah," said the second, "all he does is sit in the corner and mope. Kinda pathetic, actually."

While they were talking, Steranko crossed the floor to the particular cell Zigesfeld was being held in, and looked through the barred window. He was unimpressed with the prisoner to say the least.

He expected some kind of brutish hulk and instead here was a skinny boy of no more than seventeen or eighteen. As the guards had said, he wasn't doing much. Nothing at all, really. Just sitting with his knees hugged to his chest, staring at the floor.

"This is the monster?" he said sarcastically.

Ilsa and the guards looked incredulous. "He was like a wild animal, sir!" protested one of the guards.

Steranko turned and gave the man a look, as though pitying some peabrained fool who had just claimed the world was flat. However upon turning back he found the youth was now looking at him. His face was mostly expressionless, but his eyes gave Steranko chills he hadn't felt in years.

"I think I see what you mean," he said, cocking his head, eyeing the boy a little better. "He doesn't look like much but when I look into his eyes, I sense...I don't know."

Ilsa came to stand beside him. She was too short to see through the window, however. "He's obviously a lunatic," she said.

"Yes, escaped from some asylum no doubt," Steranko said without looking at her. He chuckled. "The strength of the insane."

Zigesfeld shifted a bit, and narrowed his eyes at the tall man. Then, he hissed at him, like a snake. Steranko took a step back, but only one step. He then regained his composure. The more time he spent in this boy's presence, the more he felt uneasy, even if he was locked up behind a steel door.

Ilsa piped up. "What shall we do with him?" she asked testingly. "Turn him over to the police?"

"No," Steranko said. He then turned away from the door and walked to the two guards. "Tonight, take him out and shoot him, and throw his body off the cliffs into the lake."

"Yes sir," said the first guard.

Ilsa for her part did not like this solution. Although she never considered herself a sentimental woman apart from her hidden affection for Augustus, the plight of the lunatic boy was making her rethink what they ought to do with him. The way he had backed away from her in fear on the stairs earlier, and no one else, got her to thinking.

She was about to speak her mind when, without any more ado, Steranko turned and walked up the stairs, not even asking Ilsa to accompany him. She fumed a bit.

"You," she said, addressing the second guard, the one with the keyring on his belt. "Unlock the door."

Both guards started, looking pale. "But Mr. Steranko said--"

"He didn't say you couldn't open the door, did he?" Ilsa pointed out. The guards looked at one another, wide-eyed. Neither replied. Ilsa smirked a bit. "Then open the door."

"Yes ma'am," the second guard said, and cautiously walked to the door and unlocked it. The first guard remained where he was.

The door swung open and all three of them expected Zigesfeld to come charging out like a lion. Ilsa was prepared to go for her whip if need be. Instead, the boy simply sat there, looking at them. Ilsa tentatively walked inside the cell.

The guard behind her hissed through his teeth and tried to grab her shoulder, missed, and backed up, clutching his machine gun fearfully. Ilsa said, "You two stay back."

As Ilsa slowly entered the cell, Zigesfeld stood abruptly, scowling, but made no move to attack her.

"What is your name?" Ilsa asked slowly. "Can you speak?"

Zigesfeld averted his eyes, looking at the floor, and shuffled his feet a bit. He wasn't a mute. Considering all the growling he did, it was plain his vocal cords worked just fine. Ilsa concluded that she was merely beholding a boy who hadn't had anything resembling real human contact in quite some time. She decided to try a different approach. Smiling, she walked a little closer.

"My name is Ilsa," she said. "I'll bet you have a nice name, yes? Perhaps even a nice voice?"

Zigesfeld looked up finally, blinking. After a moment, he nodded. Ah, progress, thought Ilsa. She went and sat on the prisoner's cot.

"So tell me, then, what is your name, my young buck?" she said.

The boy's lips moved a bit, and he frowned in concentration. He mouthed something, then after a minute of struggling, he said, in a surprisingly deep, resonant voice with a hint of a Teutonic accent, "Zuh-Zigesfeld."

"Aha," Ilsa said, her smile widening. "I thought so. You do have a lovely name, Zigesfeld. And a lovely voice, as I anticipated."

Zigesfeld blushed and made a crooked smile. This was the first time in years anyone had ever said anything nice to him. He was starting to like this small woman, this Ilsa.

Having made progress, Ilsa stood and walked right up to him. In the corner of her eye she saw the guards tense and bristle. Zigesfeld glared at them and growled again. Ilsa however took his hand and stroked his soothingly. He whipped his head around and looked down, and tried to pull his hand away, but the short woman's grip was tight, and she held him.

"Now, now," she said softly, continuing to pet his hand. "There's no need to be afraid. No one is going to hurt you."

Hearing this, one of the guards said, "But Miss Grunt, Mr. Steranko said--"

"Oh, Steranko said, Steranko said," Ilsa mumbled in annoyance, cutting him off. "Shut up. And you." She addressed the other guard. "Go and find Augustus and bring him back down here."

"Uh, y-yes ma'am," he said, and, whirling, ran up the steps.

Turning back to Zigesfeld, Ilsa said, "I'm going to introduce you to a nice man. His name is Augustus Steranko. I work for him. And if we play our cards right, you could, too."

A few minutes later, Steranko bounded down the steps, the guard sent to fetch him hot on his heels. He looked enraged, but froze on seeing the cell door was open. Looking at the guards he cautiously walked over and looked in.

"What on Earth are you doing?" he asked. "And why did you send this pinhead to fetch me?"

"I wanted to show the progress I have made with our new friend here," Ilsa said. "His name is Zigesfeld. He's a very sweet boy."

Steranko blinked, looking as if he'd just witnessed Ilsa conjured a three-headed squirrel out of thin air. "Don't tell me you've gone all motherly on him," he said, appalled.

Letting go of Zigesfeld's hand, Ilsa came over. "He listens to me," she said. "I think we should re-evaluate our choices."

"What do you mean?"

"Killing him would be a waste. Given time I think he can be properly tamed. Anyone who can singlehandedly embarass your army of miscreants deserves a little consideration."

"We'll see about that," Steranko said. He whirled to the guards. "You two! Over here, now!" They hurried over. Steranko grabbed their machine guns and took them away. Handing them to Ilsa, he said, "We'll see just how well your 'Zigesfeld' does, shall we? Come, stand out of the way, my dear."

Take her by the shoulders Steranko moved her out of the cell. The two guards stood there, looking confused.

"Well?" Steranko said. "Attack him! Fight him!"

They both started, but then, resolutely, entered the cell. Zigesfeld squatted low with his hands out at their approach, growling. The two guards balled their fists up. A few clumsy punches were thrown; Zigesfeld batted these away. This went on for a while. It was clear to both Ilsa and Steranko that neither of the guards was particularly eager to provoke the crazed youth.

Finally, tired of the repetition, Ilsa put the guns down and said, "Oh, what are you waiting for? Kill them!"

The guards turned, mouths open in shock. Zigesfeld was upon them in a flash. He tackled them both to the ground at once. Watching from the doorway, Ilsa and Steranko backed up as the three men rolled around on the floor fighting. After an intense two minutes, Zigesfeld knocked one guard senseless and subdued the other, and killed him by grabbing his head and giving it a sharp twist, snapping his neck.

The other guard, dazed, tried to get up. Zigesfeld stood, grabbed him by the front of his uniform, and hauled him to his feet. He then swung the confused man around and slammed him into the stone wall with bone-shattering force, crushing his skull. Zigesfeld released him and he slowly slid to the floor.

"Good!" said Ilsa, clapping. "Very good!"

Zigesfeld turned to face them, smiling more fully now.

"I'm impressed," said Steranko. "All right, Ilsa, you've made your point. I'll keep the mongrel. For now. He stays down her for tonight, but in the morning, I want him taken for a haircut and to get some new clothes. And remember." He held up a finger. "One wrong move and I'll have him put down like the wild animal he is!"

With that, Steranko left. Ilsa smirked, then went back over to Zigesfeld and again took his hand in hers.

"I'm very proud of you. You see? Just trust in me, and you'll have a very bright future here."

Zigesfeld grinned, happy for the first time in as long as he could remember.

The End 


End file.
